One Thing
by Suz2
Summary: Slash: In the wee hours after his brush with genius, Hobbes ruminates on partnership, love and sacrifice. Missing tag scene for Flowers for Hobbes. Strong M for language and situations


Fandom: The Invisible Man

Pairing: Bobby/Darien

Missing scene for Flowers for Hobbes

Rating: NC-17/Mature: Adults Only

Series: Not if I can help it…

Synopsis: Bobby muses on the nature of partnerships, sacrifices, and love.

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day to my Beta readers. Thanks, guys!

One Thing

By Suz

_"So. It's pretty simple here: to save me, you're going to have to tell me how to stop it."_

_"Fawkes. Fawkes. I will not **do** that."_

_"Yeah, you will. **Yes.** **You will,** Bobby. You would die for me That's what **I** know. It's not because it's your job or your code. It's because I'm your friend. If you think that's an illusion, then you're just plain ignorant."_

_"You're making a big mistake."_

_"Ya see, you don't know everything, Bobby. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's one thing about me you **don't** know…" _

Claire sent me home a few hours after I woke up in the Keep, groggy and feeling like I'd taken too many sleeping pills or something: foggy. Woozy. I don't like feeling that way. Never have. Which is why it took me a long time to get on the program and take my meds regular-like. When she gave me the all clear, my partner drove me home and made sure I went to bed. I hadda practically threaten him to make him leave, he was hovering like an expectant father. Driving me nuts.

In a good way. But still. I have a lot of stuff to deal with, and I know it'll take me time, and some space, to do it in. It's just that I keep coming back to that last hour or so in the padded cell….

See, I'm lying here in the dark, trying to relax, trying to sleep, but I just can't stop thinkin'.

Well, what passes for thinking, anyway, now that the brain whammy whacko Doctor Galvison put on me is kaput. I think that conversation is gonna end up burned into the inside of my eyelids at this rate. Or maybe my eardrums.

Fawkes, sitting there in that rickety wooden chair, waving that godawful syringe around like a conductor's baton, orchestrating the death of what I was becoming.

I… I don't know what happened there, honestly. I look at the stuff going through my head during that conversation and it's like it happened to someone else. I guess in a way, it did. Here, now, in the dark, I know Fawkes did what he did for me because he's my friend. Because he'd die for me. Because I would do the same for him. I believe it. All the way to my soul. And what's weird is, I think I've known it for a while, now. Maybe since I took that header off the fire escape, and saw just how wrecked Fawkes was by that accident, taking all the responsibility for screwing up and nearly getting me killed.

But back in the - in the sort of half-memories of that conversation, I felt so alone, and so powerful. Like nothing could touch me. Now I feel like I'm watching a split screen movie or something. What I feel now, and what I felt then.

When he stabbed that 4 inch needle into his thigh, looking me in right the eyes, deadly serious, none of his usual punk-ass self anywhere in sight, it might has well have been aimed straight at my heart.

Alone, I was safe. Alone, I was powerful. Alone, I felt nothing except exhilaration at what was happening to me. But Fawkes made sure I had company. Made sure I knew that I wasn't the only one affected by what was happening to me. He forced me to see something I hadn't ever believed before. I mattered. At least to him.

That got through the way words could never have. And made _my_ words a second before, all that 'friendship is an illusion, Fawkes. A cultural expression of the pack mentality – for survival' crap, totally meaningless. Or maybe it made all too meaning_ful_.

_"What's wrong with survival, Hobbes?"_ he'd asked then…

Survival. His meant nothing to him without mine. And if that meant killing the mutating cells that were turning me into a high wattage bulb and burning me out in the process, well, that was what he was gonna do. Or die trying.

I guess that's part of what's got me all broody. Fawkes didn't even think twice. He just stuck that syringe in his thigh and pushed the plunger, then sat there while I made the toughest choice of my life. Only, when it came right down to it, it wasn't so hard after all.

My eyes still blur thinking about it now, hours later. I… I don't think I've ever been as sure of anything in my life as I was of one thing, that minute or so we sat looking at each other. It's not as clear now as it was then, but it _is_ one of the things that hasn't ended up as confused as the rest of what was going on in my head… because this wasn't going on in my head at all. It was going on in my heart.

I love Fawkes. I love him enough to give up the only thing I've ever really wanted: peace. I love the kid for the way he knew it without it ever being said, even though it also pisses me off that he figured it out before I did. I'm awed by the fact that he trusted me. On faith. With his life.

And I'm so mad at him for taking that insane risk it's choking me. He called my bluff, a bluff I didn't even know I was making. How the hell did he know I'd fold for him? He shouldn't have, that's what. No way he knows I've gone and fallen for him. All my stupid rules about fishing off the company pier are just so much rhetoric to hide behind, 'cuz admitting that what I feel for my partner went way past work or even friendship a long while back scares the crap outta me. But loving the kid is easy. Even if trust on my end came a lot harder.

It's knowing what the hell to do about it now that's got me staring at the ceiling at 3 in the morning. The conversation goes through my mind again, though the grip I had on what was going on in my head at the time is fading fast. And I guess that isn't really the issue, except I have the weirdest sense of staring back at Fawkes as the whole gland problem went through my brain at warp speed. What's frustrating is I remember knowing how to fix the damned thing, at last I think I did…. but I can't get to it any more.

Not that I can tell that to Fawkes now; it'd just be one more disappointment in the whole 'get it outta my head' game. Kinda pointless. But it makes me wish I'd had a little longer – and a little time out of the restraints - to get to a computer and make some notes for Claire before she hit me with the viral antidote.

I shake off that line of thought because it depresses me, and right now, there are other things I need to think about. Like what I think I'm doing, falling for my partner. It's not like I did it on purpose, but it still complicates things in a major way.

It's not even the fact that he's, uh, a 'he.' Not really. In some ways, it actually makes things easier. Or it would if he felt the same way. The communication thing we've got down pretty well. Not like when I try and actually have a conversation with a woman, like Claire, for example, about important stuff. The reality is, Fawkes and me, we've got a kind of shorthand that lets us know how the other is doing without those uncomfortable girl-type conversations.

And the sex issue… well, let's just say Bobby Hobbes has an open mind. Maybe not a lot of first hand experience, but I'm willing to learn. It's a little weird to be thinking about another guy being attractive and sexy, but I think Fawkes has that effect on pretty much anyone he meets, regardless what equipment they were born with. And there's gotta be some advantages to being with someone the same gender as you are. Like you both know the lay of the land, how the plumbing works, and what feels good. And god knows, the libidos would sure mesh better.

Of course, lying here in the dark thinking about sex with my partner isn't exactly calming me down any. Pretty much the opposite, though it sure as hell is distracting me from the real issue: which is, what do I do about it? Oh, not the hard-on pushing against my boxers so uncomfortably, that's easy, but the day-to-day stuff. The workload, the cases, the long stakeouts, and worst of all, the danger he's in all the frickin' time because of the gland in his head.

I'm not very good at love. And trying to explain why I'm even more whacko than normal around Fawkes isn't going to be easy. And I'm not sure I can talk to the Keeper about it, either. She'd just prescribe more meds. Like that'd help.

Not to mention it'd end up in one of her reports, and there goes my career, what's left of it. The Fat Man would can me so fast, I'd never see it coming. Just one day, I'd be locked outta my office, outta the building, hell, outta my van, probably. And for sure Fawkes'd be packed up and moved to someplace I'd never find him again.

I've been down this road before with my ex. I get overprotective, I get obsessive, I get to be a real pain in the ass. At least with Fawkes, there's a reason to be paranoid. He's a trouble magnet like no one I've ever worked with. He's making a career out of being a punching bag for every nut job we come across.

I just don't see any way this can work. Oh, hell, who am I kidding here? Like Fawkes would give me the time of day if he knew I had a thing for him? Not that he's a homophobe or anything like that, but it'd be a long time before we got our groove back if I confessed that particular sin. A coworker with a crush on you is not a comfortable thing. Trust me, I know. Particularly when that coworker has a history of stalker-type behavior. I sigh into the darkness of my bedroom.

So why am I lying here in the dark torturing myself with the idea that there might be something there?

It's all because of those last words outta his mouth as he injected Galvison's virus into his leg…

… _you don't know everything, Bobby. In fact, I'm pretty sure there's one thing about me you **don't** know…_

One thing.

_What_ thing, dammit? It's sure as hell more than what his favorite color is, or what his politics are. No. This was something _important_. Something about _him_. About _us_. What don't I know? And that, my friend, is what's keeping me awake, here.

I've already taken romance out of the picture. No way he'd be feeling what I do. Not for an over-the-hill beat-up old agent like me. Short? Bald? Nose two sizes too big for my face? Nuh-uh. Not when he's got the looks to have anyone he sets his sights on, pretty much. At least if he'd stop acting like such a doofus around the chicks.

That thought makes me sit up in bed, my eyes wide open, heart suddenly racing with something like excitement, any chance at sleep out the window. Is _that_ it? He's into guys?

No, wait a minute. That doesn't track. I've seen him flirt with chicks, but never with other men. He doesn't do it very well, but there's no doubt about the fact he digs women. Besides, there's his ex-girlfriend who can probably vouch for his bedroom skills in that department. And we've had too many raunchy stakeout conversations about 'em for that to be just posturing. Besides, I don't think he's the type to stay in the closet about stuff like that. Not once he starts trusting someone. So it can't be that.

I drop back onto my mattress restlessly and leave the blankets where they ended up, down around my waist. The weight of them on my half-hard dick is vaguely erotic. Crap, right now, _anything_ touching me on my groin would be erotic. Now, if it was Fawkes… and my dick goes from semi-hard to iron in about three heartbeats at that thought.

Oh great. Just _great_. I know there's no way on earth I'm getting to sleep unless I take care of that particular little problem. At least an orgasm is better than another sleeping pill, seeing as the first one I took 5 hours ago did exactly nothing to relax me.

I kick the blankets further down and slide my right hand under the waistband of the boxers, lifting the elastic up and over my cock, exposing it to the night. I just lie there, hoping the cooler air will be enough to take care of the problem. Ordinarily it might, but thoughts of Fawkes keep flitting through my head and that isn't doing a damned thing to help the situation.

So if the punk is going to haunt me tonight, I might as well enjoy his company, I think at last and reach down to ruffle my coarse, dark pubic hair, all the while imagining it's him, touching me for the first time like this.

I peel the boxers the rest of the way off, toss them on the floor and close my eyes, conjuring up his face, the look in his eyes sometimes when he gives me one of his quirky mega-watt smiles. Fawkes: happy and healthy and mine. I slide the hand down further to fondle my balls, feeling the weight of them, full of cum, the hair-dusted skin kind of wrinkly and slack around the inner nuts. I see where the euphemism came from, I guess. I just handle them awhile, hefting them, exploring them the way a new lover might, trying to stay objective as sexual tension begins tightening my muscles and hitching my breathing.

Finally, I can't stand it any more and I run my fingers up my dick to the head. I'm cut, obviously – every Jewish boy is – and maybe not as sensitive as some, but the touch, my fantasy Fawkes' hand on me, is more than enough to make me moan softly in the back of my throat. Pre-cum is already beading up in the slit, so I use my forefinger to spread it around the head, doing my best to concentrate on what my fingers are telling me, not what my dick is.

What I _feel_ is the flared head with the tiny ridge of scar tissue around the widest part, where the Rabbi took the foreskin. I feel the hot flesh, the little slit seeping slick wetness. I feel the softness of the skin below the head, on the shaft, looser over the achingly hard muscle beneath. I feel the big vein, throbbing with my pulse, running along the underside in its erratic course. I feel the narrowness under the flange of the head widen to a handful an inch or so below, and thicken gradually all the way to the base. I may not be the longest guy around, but I don't have anything to ashamed of, either. And I make up for length in diameter. The women I've been with have never been unhappy, anyway.

The tension low in my belly is growing, and I know I've either gotta back off or do it, or I'm going to make myself even crazier than I already am. Since I've decided to enjoy this little act of insanity, I focus again on what my imagination tells me Fawkes would be doing to me in this situation. What he'd look like. His expression, his touch, the scent of his skin, the taste of his sweat…

The fantasy unfolds in my head like pretty much any other, only the way my body is reacting is a whole new story. It's like every nerve, every muscle, is hyper-aware. Like it's my body's turn to inhabit some alternate dimension the way my mind did earlier today. My skin responds to the calluses on my palm and fingers as though it was fine grit sandpaper, and I have to keep the touch lighter than I want or risk the pleasure turning to pain. So I imagine it's Quicksilver, that roughness, since the cold would sensitize my nerves like this, and sigh Darien's name as I draw fingers over the shaft from base to tip, then trace around the head repeatedly, building the pitch of my arousal.

My balls are tightening, drawing up, and I know I'm almost done. I tighten my grip and start jacking more forcefully, the surge of sensation though me overwhelming. What felt rough a second ago now feels so intensely right it's all I can do to not to rush through the last few moments of this, so with my free hand, I stroke myself from belly to chest, brushing past my nipples, then circling down again for another pass, just holding my dick in the other hand, forefinger and thumb circling the base hard to quell the urge to hump the air. Diverting myself from the heat between my legs, and the _want_ pounding through me, I hear his voice in my head, the words that torment me, only instead of the fear and grim determination in his tone, I hear something softer.

_"… one thing you don't know about me…"_ I can hear it in my head as though he was whispering it in my ear, his breath warm on my skin, his tongue following the words inside, then back out to circle the edge of my ear. I feel his mouth, his lips, the heat of him, his weight against me, and when I've drawn it out as long as I can stand it, I finally let my fantasy Fawkes take me over the edge, his name in my mouth as I come in sticky thick spurts all over my hand and belly. "Fawkes," I groan, my breath sobbing in my chest with the exertion. "_What_ thing, dammit?"

I lie there, letting the sweat and the semen dry on my skin, not bothering to try and clean it up, because I need more than this. Instead of quenching the awkward and scary feelings I have for Darien, the urge to seduce my partner is stronger than ever, I need sex so badly it's as if my whole body's on fire with desire. Desire for Fawkes. But even stronger than that is the need to know what he meant. It's more than need. It's become some kind of obsessive compulsion.

I fight it in vain, and 10 minutes later, the reek of my sweat and cum still thick in the air and fogging my brain, I throw all caution to the wind and roll over to pick up the phone next to my bedside, hitting speed dial for his place.

It rings. And rings.

And rings.

I can imagine what it sounds like at his end, echoing off the concrete of his floor and ceiling. His place is a little like a cave: all hard surfaces and reverb. And then it's answered, the clunk of the receiver against something hard as he fumbles with it letting me know I've woken him up. Like that's a surprise.

_"Mmm? Fawkes. This'd better be important,"_ he yawns into the mouthpiece, his voice thick and indistinct with sleep.

"Fawkes," I gulp, suddenly wondering what the hell I'm doing. The past 48 hours have been almost as hard on Fawkes as they were on me. He's not going to thank me for waking him up.

_"Bobby?"_ I hear the sleepiness vanish in that single word, worry taking its place. _"What's wrong? Are you OK?"_

"What'd you mean, Fawkes?" I demand.

_"Huh?"_ he grunts, and I hear springs creak a little as he sits up. _"Mean when?"_

"Today. Uh, yesterday, I guess, now, " I answer, my words tumbling out of my mouth erratically. "When you – you know."

I can hear in the brief silence he _does_ know, but he's getting annoyed as the first flash of concern fades and the reality of an unwanted 3:00 am wake up call sinks in. _"I **know** it's after 3 in the frickin' morning, Hobbes. I **know** you're a nut case. I **know** lots of things. Which 'I know' is this one supposed to be?" _he snarks.

"In the padded cell. With the needle. And the – and the virus," I stammer, more and more sure this is probably the worst idea I've ever had. "You said - you said there was at least one thing about you I didn't know," I let it out in a rush and hold my breath, waiting to hear what his response is going to be.

_"Hobbes? Are you sure you're alright?"_ he asks instead. The worry is back, and something else besides. _"I'm coming up there."_

"No! No, don't, Fawkes. Just answer the question," I plead. The idea of him racing over here to find me sprawled naked on my bed, covered in cum and reeking of sex makes my face sizzle in embarrassment. But the need to know has never been stronger.

_"What question?"_ he asks, and the confusion in his voice tells me he's not any more awake, really, than he was when he first answered the phone.

"In the padded cell. When you… when you injected yourself with the retrovirus. You said there was one thing I didn't know about you," I prompt again.

There's a pause so long I'm starting to think we got cut off. "Fawkes?" I say uneasily into that silence.

_"We need to talk about this right now?"_ he asks reluctantly.

There's something about his tone, something that makes me sit back up, "Yeah," I reply softly.

There's another long pause. _"OK,"_ he agrees - and the phone goes dead.

"Crap!" I swear and hit redial. This time, it just goes on ringing. I slam it back in the cradle and grind the heels of my hands into my eye sockets tiredly. How it's possible to be this exhausted and feel like I'll never sleep again, I have no idea.

So when I hear the sound of footsteps on my stairs I nearly jump out of my skin. I'm out of bed, Colt in hand, and through my bedroom door to the landing before I've finished processing the fact that it's a familiar step, and that I'm still stark naked.

Fawkes is standing on my stairs about 2 down from the top, a hand on the railing, one foot in the air, staring straight at the muzzle of my pistol.

"Uh, Bobby?" he clears his throat after a moment. "Think you could put the gun down?"

I jump, then lower the gun, thumbing on the safety, and I see him relax a little. "Fawkes! What – how the hell did you get here so fast?"

He's still in the rumpled clothes he was wearing earlier today, and his hair is sticking up on one side and plastered to his head on the other. He yawns before answering.

"I never left," he says sarcastically.

My brain isn't firing on all cylinders, I guess, because this isn't making any sense. "But I just called you," I squint at him in the dim light filtering in from the streetlight outside. "At _home_."

"Haven't you ever heard of call forwarding?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow at me. "I didn't want to leave you alone just in case, so I crashed on your couch," he finishes patiently, as if he was talking to a child.

I glare at him. "I may not have the 400-plus IQ any more, Fawkes, but I'm not a moron, either," I snap.

"Did I say you were?" he asks rhetorically. "Look, Hobbes, you're the one who woke ME up, right? You want to talk? Here I am. You don't want to talk? Then I'm going back downstairs and going back to sleep," he goes on, stifling another yawn. "Besides, you're gonna freeze if you stand there much longer."

Even in the low light I can see his grin, teeth gleaming. I'm just glad he can't see the blush that flames my own face. "Uhm, yeah. About that," I start, awkwardly.

He shrugs. "Not like I've never seen the view before," he assures me and I feel my mouth dropping open.

"What? _When_?" I demand, the whole conversation going more and more surreal on me.

It's his turn to be embarrassed at least, I realize, as he ducks his head a little and does the puppy dog eyes. "Uh…"

"Oh, snappy comeback, gland boy. I repeat: when. Did. You. _EVER_. See. Me. _Naked_?" Now _this_ is a question I'm damned well going to get an answer for if I have to beat it outta him.

"Uhm… well…" he's stammering, now.

For a split second I'm almost tempted to stick my gun back in his face, but I know better than to aim a weapon at anything I'm not willing to shoot. I grab him by the bicep and haul him up the last 2 steps instead, practically yanking him off his feet in the process. "You think I'm letting you off the hook on that, you've got another thing coming, pal," I tell him. Without letting go, I turn and head back into my bedroom, dragging him after me. He's stumbling a little, tripping over his own stocking feet, and I give him a hard shove, sending him sprawling onto my king-sized bed.

"Hey, what was _that_ for?" he whines, and sits up while I eject the clip and put my .45 back in the nightstand drawer. "What the hell have you been doing up here? It smells like a whorehouse. If you were gonna party, you could've at least invited your partner, ya know? Superman?" he waves a facetious hand at me; "Invisible man?" he waggles his fingers at his own chest and pauses, glancing around. "So where's Wonderwoman?"

I slam the nightstand drawer shut before he can spot the condoms and stuff I keep in there. "Fawkes. _When_ have you ever seen me naked?" I demand, hands on my hips, glowering down at him.

He grimaces and eyes me a little warily, probably trying to decide if I'm going to go off on him if he tells me.

"Fawkes."

He clears his throat a little. "Uhm, well…"

"Yeah, real articulate. Spill it, ace. How the hell would you ever have seen me in the raw, dammit?"

He looks down. "WhenIbrokeinandhidinyourclosetafewmonthsago," he says so fast it's all one word.

"Try that again, this time in English," I snark at him, pretty sure I know what he said, but wanting him to confess.

"I, uh, broke in a few months ago." He glances up at me from under his eyelashes.

In the warm light of the lamp on my nightstand he looks maybe 15, and I feel like a dirty old man, but he's frickin' gorgeous, sitting there in his wrinkled shirt and ratty jeans and socks and messed-up hair.

It's the hair that tips the balance. "You broke in." I keep my tone real even, not wanting to give him any clue how I'm taking this. "Why?"

He looks away again. "I was worried about you. After you went home from the hospital? After the fire escape?" The dark eyes sweep back in my direction again uncomfortably.

"Nice try, Fawkes. I'd just had my brain unscrambled by that doctor. I was fine, and you know it." I lean forward suddenly, my hands on his knees, right in his face. "What aren't you telling me?"

My heart is thudding slowly against my sternum like a drumbeat, and I can feel the heat of him through the denim under my hands, smell the musky scent of his skin. And finally he meets my eyes, embarrassed, awkward, and the reality hits me between the eyes. "Fawkes."

"Hobbes."

Same soft inflection I used. Same little smile mirroring mine. "What's the one thing I don't know about you?" I ask, still quietly, letting the gravitational attraction pull me towards him, eyes focused on his mouth.

"I love you?" he says, making it a question, though I don't doubt it for a minute. I can _smell_ him, smell the arousal coming off him in waves. It's like an electric charge straight to my dick.

"So when did you see me naked?" I come back to the first question, closer than ever to him, my gaze flashing to his eyes.

"At least a half dozen times," he breathes, lids starting to close.

"A half dozen, huh?" I repeat and brush my lips over his so lightly I barely feel his skin, but I can't miss his sharp, indrawn breath pulling my own from my lungs. "Sounds like more than just looking out for a partner, partner," I tease a little, kissing him again, this time more forcefully.

I pull back to watch him, see the tip of his tongue flick over his mouth as if to taste me there as his eyes open again. "So you've been stalking me," I grin. "Usually that's _my _gig."

He shrugs a little, eyes locked on mine. "You weren't getting the message," he answers, and that catches me by surprise.

"I wasn't, huh?" I brush my mouth over his again lightly. "Did I get it this time?"

"Uh-huh," he grunts affirmatively, one hand coming up to curve around the back of my head, and he tugs me a little closer, this time kissing _me_. "Sure took you long enough, there, Hobbesy," he adds when he breaks the lip lock again.

"You ever planning on telling me you had a thing for me?" I ask curiously.

"You ever planning on telling _me_?" he counters ironically, wrinkling his nose at the sex smell that permeates my bedroom.

"Nope, hadn't planned to. Not 'til this afternoon. So. Is this the one thing?" I prod him.

"I already answered that question," he grins at me.

"Maybe, but you didn't answer the first question, Gilligan. When've you seen me naked?"

"Which time?" he asks, a wicked look in his eyes.

"The most recent one, for starters," I respond immediately.

"Last week. Spied on you while you took a shower Tuesday night after work. Watched you jack off." He pauses, looking up at me seriously. The sparkle in his eyes wrecks the effect, though. "Was that hard-on for me?"

"Probably. Most of the time it is, these days," I admit, and in the back of my mind I'm busy being amazed that this isn't anywhere close to freaking me out. Hell, more like it's turning me on again. "Why?"

"Why are your hard-ons for me?" he deliberately misunderstands. "I don't know, Hobbesy. Why _are_ they?"

I shake my head and smirk. "Punk. Because you're a frickin' tease, my friend, that's why."

"Tease?" he says, pretending to be wounded. I can see the laughter in his expression, though.

"Tease. With a capital 'T'. Fawkes, you spend a hellova a lot of time in front of your mirror, but I guess you don't really look in it that much, huh? Because if I was to pick up one'a the dictionaries lying around here, I bet I'd find your _picture_ under the definition of the word 'tease.'"

"I think I'm offended," he complains, less than half serious. "Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, there, Bobby. You're the one standing here bare-assed and you're calling _me_ a tease? Takes one to know one, I guess. Wish I'd known you'd started the party up here. I'd have made sure to crash it," he wiggles his eyebrows at me. "Really give you something to celebrate."

"What's stopping you, gland-boy?" I grin back at him. "Never too late to join me."

He stares back at me, mouth open, and I just wait, hoping we haven't misread each other somehow.

The smile that creeps over his face as I watch makes my heart sing - and my cock stand up and take notice. His words clinch the deal.

"OK," he laughs. "Wanna fuck?"

"You better believe it, partner. Strip," I order, and he doesn't need to be told twice.

He's undressed, clothes thrown all around the room, in five seconds or less. As he drapes himself across my bed, arms crossed behind his head in this ultra-casual pose that shows off every one of his six feet three inches, I climb onto the mattress next to him so I can admire the view a little closer up. "So. That thing," I start, and he sputters with laughter, reaching out to grab my dick in one big hand.

"This thing?" he asks, jerking me once, twice, then stopping, the asshole.

"The one you said I didn't know about you," I say through clenched teeth, the heat of his hand on me so frickin' amazing it's all I can do not to try and hump myself against his grip. "And the peeping Tom routine. How come you never said anything?"

"What, tell Mr. Lethal Weapon that I want to get naked with him? Have you beat me to death with my own arm after you tore it off? Don't think so." He moves a little and kisses the top of my head, nuzzling me. "Wanted to see if there was any chance in hell you'd want this before I opened my big mouth and took a chance on screwing up the best friendship I've ever had," he admits, and kisses my skull again. "How 'bout you? What's your excuse?" he asks.

"Same," I admit, turning a little to bury my nose in the hollow of his throat. I lick him, then kiss him, then latch on and start sucking on the skin above his breastbone, determined to mark him. At this point, I don't really care if everyone on the planet knows I'm screwing my partner. I'm not thinking with the big head, that's for sure….

"Mmmm," he murmurs, caressing my skull with a gentle stroke. "You know how long I've wanted to do this?" he asks.

"Hmmph," I snuffle against his skin and break the suction I have going. "Too much talking, Fawkes," I scold and scoot up so we're face to face. "We're gonna have to do that part eventually. But for right now, shut up and let's fuck," I grin at him.

"Works for me," he laughs and suddenly I've got most of his tongue in my mouth, wet and hot and if the rest of him is this flexible, we're gonna be having a hellova lot of fun.

When he pulls back so we can breathe, I pant; "or kiss. That works, too."

He grins against my check, and I can feel our beard stubble rasp together. Who'd a figured it for a turn on? "Fawkes?"

"Who's talking now?" he snickers. "What?"

"Top or bottom?"

"Versatile," he says without hesitation. "You?"

"Dunno, yet," I shrug a little, comfortable with being the newbie for a change. I don't know why it never occurred to me before right now that he'd had some experience with this kind of thing, having spent time in prison and all, but I can't say it ever registered with me 'til now.

He pulls back so he can meet my eyes, and I can see him searching mine for some clue what to say here.

"Hey, I've taught you how to shoot one kinda gun, ace. You can teach me how to shoot another," I grin with a lascivious eyebrow twitch. He cracks up, the brief moment of potential awkwardness gone.

"I guarantee you'll be enjoying this kind of target practice a whole lot more than I liked being on the gun range," he assures me, and kisses me again.

"And I'll just bet I'm a better marksman than my goofball partner," I say, straight-faced.

"You willing to put money on that?" Fawkes responds, huffy.

"I'll put my mouth where your money is, partner," I grin back at him.

"Oh, _yeah_!" he sighs happily. "I'll take that action, my friend," he raises one hand for a knuckle rap, and I bump him with mine.

"I figured you might," I answer real casually, smirking.

"You're a prick, Hobbes," he snickers.

"Takes one to know one."

"Heh," he grunts and grabs the weapon in question. "Bobby's dick, meet Darien Fawkes, your new best friend," he says to my cock, which is only too happy to shake hands with him. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Ditto," I gasp as he slides down the bed to get to face level with his handful. "But aren't I supposed to be the one with my mouth where the money is?"

"Don't worry, Bobby, I'll call in that marker," he says as he licks me.

I shiver happily. I've never been blown by another guy, but if the way my nerve endings are humming already is any indication, it's gonna be good. "You do that, Fawkes, you do that…." I manage just before my brain shuts down completely.

"Count on it, pal," he answers as wet warmth engulfs me, and the only thing left in the universe is the weight of him, his heat, and the way he fits me, my life, my heart. And the one thing I wanted even more than peace – love – sweeps over me like a tidal wave, tumbling me in its wake like Fawkes tumbles my balls in his hand.

Finis

Happy Valentine's Day!


End file.
